


a flaming red horizon that screams our names

by cherry_darling



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_darling/pseuds/cherry_darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is in the hospital for three days when he looks in the mirror for the first time since Garret Hobbs, and he doesn’t recognize himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a flaming red horizon that screams our names

**Author's Note:**

> written for the kink meme: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=15455#cmt15455
> 
> "and okay it is kind of related to the books but i want it set in the tv universe if that makes sense  
> so i will explain
> 
> before the events of red dragon, graham admitted himself to a hospital psychiatric ward for four weeks after killing hobbs because it just eats him up inside
> 
> i know in the show this def won't happen, and they'll probably have will work through it~~ with his new bff dr hannibal lecter, but idk i would like to read something set after the pilot episode, with maybe crawford or bloom suggesting will seek help in a hospital because he stops eating and speaking and eventually he consents and idk lecter comes and talks to him there IDK"

and we always seem to need the help  
of someone else  
to mend that shelf  
too many books  
read me your favorite line

(DAMIEN RICE)

 

 

 

The orderly who shows Will to his new room (a square room, bare and white with thick unbarred windows and thin, clean sheets) has very long black hair which she wears in a braid, fringe pulled back and fastened with a silver pin. Her nails are trimmed and painted a delicate pink.

He looks around his room and puts his things on the white linoleum floor. He almost sits down on the bed but decides against it. The room is cold, the air conditioning ruffling his hair. Outside, he can see the sun shining, a tree a few feet away from his window. A bird perches on the branches; Will can see something in its mouth. It might be a worm but he’s too far away to tell.

Will’s palms are sweating, his throat tight.

“My name is Lidia,” she says, her voice gentle and Will doesn’t meet her gaze but he knows her eyes are brown, big and brown and probably warm, but her face is impassive, carefully blank, lips set in a non-committal line. She is unreadable, and this unnerves Will a little. “I’ll be here until nine tomorrow morning. Just let the other orderlies or I know if you need anything at all. I’ll be back in two hours to take you to dinner.”

Lidia leaves, the soft tapping of her shoes echoing on the linoleum as she goes, following her down the hall. The sound echoes in his head for a long time.

Will sits down on the bed. Will puts his face in his sticky, sweaty palms, Will releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

 

-

 

 

It has been twenty days since Will has slept.

Not that anyone’s counting, of course.

 

 

-

 

 

He spent his first sleepless night in the hospital with Abigail Hobbs. Lecter had stayed too, but Will doesn’t really count him because Lecter had been asleep and he hadn’t been paying the good doctor any attention.

Will had been awake all night, watching for the rise and fall of Abigail’s chest, staring at her fluttering pulse point, the steady beeping of her heart monitor unusually comforting. He doesn’t know what he would do if it stopped.

(Lecter’s hand never moves from Abigail’s, even when he shifts in his sleep, even when he clears his throat and murmurs something in French, his chin tucked to his chest. Will sees this, but he doesn’t think too much on it. He just files it away and maybe he’ll revisit the memory someday, air it out and actually focus on it, but not today.)

Lecter wakes around five in the morning when the sun’s yellow fingers begin to creep through the gray skies. Lecter, head twitches to the side and he wakes, clearing his throat, rolling his neck and standing up in one fluid motion. He is still perfectly pressed, hair still smooth and appearing more like he’d just gotten out of a boring lecture than spent the night in the hospital with a seventeen-year-old comatose girl but there are dark circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth. He looks as tired as Will feels.

“Jack knows where we are, yes?” he asks, adjusting his cuffs. There’s dried blood on the tan cloth but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Will nods his head and doesn’t take his eyes off Abigail. He doesn’t say a word.

Abigail’s chest moves up and down, her heartbeat steady on the monitor, the _beep – beep – beep_ deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Will can feel Lecter standing in the doorway, waiting for him. He doesn’t sense impatience, so he waits a few moments longer before he finally gets to his feet. His knees creak and crack when he stretches his legs and his spine aches from where it was hunched in the same position all night. He rolls his shoulders and grimaces from the pain.

“Abigail is in safe hands, William,” Lecter says, his accented voice confident and quiet. “You should go home and get some rest.”

Will goes home and stands under the shower for nearly an hour, the water turned on as hot as it can go and he scrubs his skin raw and red and he still doesn’t feel clean.

He doesn’t know if he ever will.

 

 

-

 

 

Jack drives him back to Virginia, Will riding in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window. The radio is on, NPR turned down low and every time Will closes his eyes, he sees a knife and Abigail’s cut throat and the blood seeping through Garret Hobbs’s shirt, antlers impaling a dark-haired woman and they hit a speed bump, Will’s eyes open and he doesn’t close them again for the rest of the trip.

The radio keeps cutting in and out and Jack curses under his breath, adjusting the station and smacking his open palm on the dashboard until he eventually shuts it off. The silence presses down on them both but Will supposes it’s better than small talk.

He’s not sure he could say anything, anyway.

 

 

-

 

 

Will makes himself a dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese and he eats three bites before throwing it in his dogs’ bowls, stomach churning.

 

 

-

 

 

Alana pulls Will aside on his fifth day back from Minnesota. “You okay?” she asks, her hand warm on his arm, long fingers lightly holding the fabric of his jacket, and Will hates the way she looks at him; so concerned and motherly and under her gaze, Will feels naked and exposed.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. Her gaze doesn’t waver and he says, “ _really_ ,” and Alana keeps looking at him, staring hard at him for a long time. Then she drops her hand, putting it in her pocket. Her mouth twists and pinches.

“Okay,” she says, a resigned note in her voice. “Fine. I’m sorry.”

There are eyes on him all the time, but Will has learned to ignore them by this point.

 

 

-

 

 

Six days.

 

 

-

 

 

Nine days.

 

 

-

 

 

Fourteen days.

 

 

-

 

 

Sometime after the second week, Will begins to lose count of the days. They all start to blend together, a jumble of half-eaten meals, nights spent in front of the television or trying to read even though the words blur and swim in front of him. Eventually, he forgets to change his clothes, forgets to wash his hair in the shower, forgets to eat.

Forgets everything but the image of Abigail Hobbs in her hospital gown, her father bleeding out on the floor, the way the blood felt under his hands.

 

 

-

 

 

Jack calls Will to his office on the eighteenth day, his face drawn tight and his lips a thin line. Jack is behind his desk, a massive, polished oak desk with his gold plated nameplate and a framed photograph of his beaming, beautiful wife. Jack is large behind the desk, his back straight as a steel rod and his shoulders are set, but his eyes are kind, worried, searching.

“Will,” he says, “I’m worried about you.”

(There’s no news about Abigail Hobbs. She’s still in a coma, her condition stable but unresponsive. For a moment, Will wonders if Lecter has been back to visit her.)

Will rubs a hand over his chin, feels the stubble there. The last time he shaved, he’d sliced up the skin covering his Adam’s apple and Beverly asked him if that was part of his empathy thing (“like are you trying to get inside Abigail’s head even more by trying to experience what a slit throat feels like? I mean, I applaud the lengths you’re willing to go to, but that’s a little intense, even for you, Will”) and Will had just looked away and muttered something.

“Will,” Jack repeats, his voice louder and Will winces. “Will, are you listening to me?”

“What do you want me to say?” Will mutters, raising and lowering one shoulder. “I’m sorry that you’re worried about me, but I’m fine.”

“Alana and I have noticed a change in your behavior, and she wanted me to talk to you about it. We both think…” and Will zones out, Jack’s voice becoming a somewhat pleasant drone and he starts to focus on the white wall behind Jack’s head. Will imagines blood (a woman’s blood, a young girl’s blood) spattered on the wall, drops of red running down and pooling on the floor, congealing into hard black beads on the wood, staining it and no amount of scrubbing will wash it out.

He pictures a stag with large, velvet covered antlers, and Abigail Hobbs, so tiny and pale in her white hospital gown, attached to a million tubes and monitors.

(Garret Hobbs is dying on the floor, his daughter’s blood on Will’s hands, his eyes locked on Will, and Hannibal Lecter in the doorway, his footfalls light on the floor and an emotion that Will can’t identify in his eyes.)

“You aren’t listening to me, Will,” Jack sighs. Jack scrubs a hand over his face, looking exhausted and Will suddenly feels very, very bad for him. He can tell that Jack is just trying to help.

“I’m sorry,” Will mutters, feeling like an admonished schoolchild. He lowers his gaze and picks at a thread on his jeans. There’s a dog food stain on the denim and he wonders when he washed them last. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”

“That’s what Alana wanted me to speak to you about,” and Jack steeples his fingers, leaning forward in his chair.

 

 

-

 

 

“You know, for the record, I never thought you were crazy.” Beverly feeds a dollar into the vending machine and shrugs at Will. “I mean, I always thought you were a bit… weird, but never like totally loony.” The machine spits out a Diet Coke and she unscrews the cap, taking a long drink.

Will takes his time choosing a drink (he eventually settles on a bottle of orange juice), and takes even longer to respond. “Thank you,” he says after a long moment. He is surprised when he means it. So there's at least one person in the world who doesn't think he's lost it entirely.

Beverly beams at him, her entire face lit up. “You’re welcome.” She sounds extraordinarily pleased.

 

 

-

 

 

In the end, Will agrees to go to the psychiatric hospital. He rationalizes it with _well, it can’t hurt_ and he feels like he might owe it to Jack and Alana for worrying them so badly.

Plus, he hopes that maybe they will help him forget about Abigail Hobbs.

 

 

-

 

 

He is in the hospital for three days when he looks in the mirror for the first time since Garret Hobbs, and he doesn’t recognize himself.

He’s lost weight, his cheeks sunken and the skin is stretched over his skull, thin and pale, yellowing like old paper. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes, which are red and swollen. His hair is greasy and dull and he can make out the faint scars from his shaving accident on his neck, a combination of not being able to look at himself and his shaking hands.

His hands are steady now as he reaches up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He turns out the light and lies down in bed.

 

 

-

 

 

Will is reading Dostoyevsky in his room when Lidia knocks on the door. He thinks it’s a check when she says, “Will, you have a visitor.”

It is his eighth day, and this is his first visitor.

 

 

-

 

 

It’s not that the hospital has been ineffective – Will can tell that they’re doing their best, it’s just that his thoughts are eating away at him and he can’t push them out of his head. They give him sleeping medication and he sleeps and sometimes he doesn’t dream but usually he sees the same images – antlers, Abigail Hobbs, pools of blood on kitchen tiles, hospitals and beeping machines – and he wakes up in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs.

(Lidia changes the sheets, says that this isn’t out of the ordinary for new patients, especially ones who has experienced what Will has. Will sits awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair in the corner, protesting that he can change his own sheets but Lidia insists. She brushes off the white duvet, smoothing it with her palms; Will finds her oddly calming and thinks that they could have been friends in another life. She smiles at Will and hands him fresh, clean pillows. “Good night, Will,” and the light clicks off. He dreams still, but only of a stag. There is no blood and he wakes up feeling groggy and heavy.)

During the day, he fares a little better. There are mindless activities here that keep him occupied. He sometimes goes into the common area and plays cards with Eric, the blonde ninety pound schizophrenic from down the hall, who beats him at gin rummy every time. When they play, Will doesn’t focus on Abigail or Alana or Jack or Lecter at all and that’s nice, he thinks, that’s how regular people might feel, except Will isn’t feeling in those moments, and maybe that’s the point, or maybe it’s not. He’s trying not to think too much, these days.

Will gets a call from Alana on the second day but he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t really feel like talking.

He supposes Alana must have gotten the hint and passed the message along because she’s the first and last call he’s received.

 

 

-

 

 

The days pass like this: Wake up. Morning checks. Take a shower. Throw on some clothes. Vital signs taken. Go to breakfast. Wait in line for weak coffee and overly buttered toast. Community group. One-on-one therapy with Dr. Reed. Cards with Eric. Watch television. Try to read _The Brothers Karamazov_. Lunch. Vitals taken again. Process group. Recreational therapy. Community group again. Education hour. Dinner hour. Vitals again. Closure group. Cards with Eric. Nighttime meds. Read _The Brothers Karamazov_ or watch television for an hour. Bedtime.

(Not found on the list: Lie awake at night before the meds kick in and struggle with being a murderer. Dream about gunfire and stained kitchen tiles, a girl in a bed attached to tubes. Wonder about ever being close to normal again.

Will does all of this anyway.)

 

 

-

 

 

(There is another part, a nastier part, a part which Will does not think about at all and this is the part he hates the most.

Garret Jacob Hobbs? He deserved to die.

And Will? He liked pulling the trigger.

Suffice it to say, that does not come up in his conversations with Dr. Reed, and this is the part which plagues him the most.)

 

 

-

 

 

“You look different,” is the first thing Dr. Lecter says, his head cocked to the side.

Will rubs the back of his neck and looks at the ground. “I feel different.”

“Feel different how?” Lecter asks the question in a way that makes Will feel like he already has the answer. Will supposes that maybe Lecter has all of the answers already.

Lecter looks the same – still tall, well-dressed, elegant and Will can’t help but hunch his shoulders to try to hide himself from his gaze. “I feel… sick.”

“That is to be expected,” Lecter says, folding his hands over his stomach. “You are coping with having killed another person. Not to mention, you feel guilty over having killed Abigail Hobbs’s father right after he killed her mother, so she is an orphan now and you feel responsible, even though her father was a murderer. It would be strange if you did not feel different.” A quirk of his lips and Will sits down on the bed, his feet flat on the floor. “Then again, that is only my analysis. What does your psychiatrist say?”

“He basically says the same thing,” Will murmurs. “He says that I’m going to blame myself regardless of if I did the right thing or not.”

Lecter sits down in the plastic chair against the wall, opposite Will. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and peers at Will with unreadable eyes that sparkle with something which Will can’t understand. “Do you think you did the right thing?” he asks very quietly. “Do you think you’ve rid the world of another monster?”

“I don’t know.” Will’s voice is barely above a whisper and it trembles and wobbles dangerously. “I don’t know anymore.”

There is something on Lecter’s face that looks like compassion.

This happened on a Wednesday.

 

 

-

 

 

Friday rolls around which means that there are pancakes for breakfast, but Will sticks to weak coffee and a bowl of Cheerios. There is pizza for lunch and Will has a turkey sandwich. The white bread sticks to the roof of his mouth like glue and mustard drips onto his white cotton, standard issue pants.

Lecter visits again that day and he brings Will a paperback copy of _A Hero of Our Time_. When Will tells him that he’s not really that into Russian literature and he’s just reading to give himself something to do, Lecter just says, “It’s a good book, William. I thought you would enjoy it.”

 

 

-

 

 

Lecter visits the following Tuesday. When he arrives, Will is sitting on the rough, scratchy couch watching _Woman of the Year_ on Turner Classic Movies. The orderlies made popcorn and Will has a bowl sitting on his lap, mostly untouched. When he sees Lecter standing there, plastic shopping bag in hand, he lowers his gaze and leads him to his room.

They take their usual spots – Lecter in the uncomfortable chair and Will on the bed and neither of them says anything for a while before Lecter reaches into the bag and takes out a Tupperware container and a thermos. “When was the last time you ate, William?”

“I eat every day,” Will says, defiant. It’s not a lie – usually he can manage half a bowl of cereal at breakfast and a few bites of lunch and dinner – but he knows it’s not enough. When they weigh him, his back is to the scale but he still knows that he’s not healthy. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees his protruding ribs. He can fit his fingers in the space between each rib like rungs on a ladder.

It’s just that he’s always nauseous.

“Eat this,” Lecter says, handing him the container, a fork and the thermos. “I think you will find it to your liking.”

The smell wafts into Will’s nose the moment he opens the container and he feels his mouth water. Herb roasted pork tenderloin, asparagus spears and creamy mashed potatoes. He takes a bite of the pork, and it’s delicious, as delicious as everything Lecter cooks, but bile still rises in his throat, a familiar wave of nausea washing over him. Still, he forces himself to swallow and has another bite.

There’s a flicker of pride on Lecter’s face as he watches Will eat, his lips set in a slightly upward curve.

“This is very good,” Will manages to say. He takes a drink from the thermos; it’s a strong tea and it warms him from his scalp all the way to his toes. “It’s really good.”

“Thank you. You have been looking rather unwell lately, so I thought I could try to help you out. I have always found hospital food subpar and thought that perhaps you would like something homemade.” Lecter’s hands are folded in his lap and he’s sitting in the uncomfortable chair like a king would sit in a throne.

Will puts a bite of asparagus in his mouth, taking his time to chew it. After he swallows, he finally asks the question that’s been bothering him. “Why are you here?” He fiddles with the handle of the fork. “Did Jack or Alana send you?”

“I just wanted to visit you,” Lecter says, his voice level. “You are my colleague and I care about you. I want you to be well.”

Taken aback, Will tries to hide his flush when Lecter says this. “Oh,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t, um, I didn’t… I’m sorry for accusing you of anything. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” Lecter asks, still calm and unreadable.

“I don’t – I don’t know.” Will can feel his anxiety begin to kick in again. Something about how utterly relaxed and in control Lecter is, even now, makes Will slightly uneasy. “I guess I just thought Jack or Alana sent you. I didn’t think that…” He trails off, helpless.

“You are surprised I care about you?” For some reason, Lecter sounds amused. “William, I have a great deal of respect for you and your work.” The corners of Lecter’s lips twitch up and he shows the barest hint of white teeth with his smile. He reminds Will of a wolf. “I care about you a great deal.”

 

 

-

 

 

He leaves after a month.

He does not consider himself _cured_ but he does consider himself _helped_ , considers himself _nearly there_. The nightmares remain, as does the guilt, but he can manage them now.

He can wear a belt now, and shoes with laces, and his own jeans and he’s excited to see his dogs and to sleep in his own bed again.

The sun is shining and it had been raining earlier that day and the grass was springy and wet under Will’s feet. Wet leaves clung to the soles of his shoes.

There is a BMW in the parking lot and the sun is bearing down on it, making the hood blinding. He shields his eyes and sees Lecter leaning against it, completely casual, and there’s a slight curve to his lips.

“Dr. Lecter, hello,” Will says, cocking his head to the side.

“I thought you could use a ride,” Lecter says, gesturing to the car. He is wearing a navy blue plaid three piece suit with a deep purple pocket square. His tie matches the color of the pocket square and the knot is slightly loosened at the throat. The sun gleams off his wristwatch and his car is a dark gray.

Will pauses, his hands in his pockets. Lecter tries to meet his gaze and Will looks down. “I mean, they’ve already called a cab for me.”

“William, I insist. We can have them call the cab company and cancel it.” He smiles again, another flash of white teeth. “Come, now. I won’t ask again.”

 

 

-

 

 

On the ride home, Lecter plays Chopin softly on the stereo and Will leans his head against the window. They are both silent, and Will finds it to be a comfortable silence. He holds his suitcase in his lap and watches as trees and buildings rush by. Lecter drives carefully and Will finds his eyes closing slowly, soothed by the smoothness of the ride.

He doesn’t fall asleep, though. He stays awake, albeit with closed eyes, and he listens to the quiet music and he thinks he can feel the warmth radiating from Lecter’s body even from here.

He hasn’t felt this calm in… Actually, he can’t remember the last time he felt this calm.

Will isn’t sure how long he’d be like that when the car rolled to a gentle stop and when he opens his eyes, he can see his house. The grass is longer and he can see that the weeds have overgrown, but other than that, it looks exactly the same.

“Would you like help taking your things inside?” Lecter asks, and he opens his door and gets out before Will can even answer.

Will only has a small suitcase and a backpack, but Lecter insists, taking the backpack and as he walks up the porch steps, Will warns him to be careful.

“The dogs,” he says, by means of explanation and he’s grateful that Lecter doesn’t question anything. He just stands back as Will unlocks the front door and three dogs come barreling out.

Lecter just politely steps to the side and silently observes as Will greets each of his dogs individually and, out of the corner of his eye, Will can see the smile tugging on the corners of Lecter’s mouth.

 

 

-

 

**(AND NOW, A BRIEF INTERLUDE: HANNIBAL)**

“I had Alana feed them while I was away,” Will explains, scratching one of his dogs behind the ear. He lets the dog lick his hand before it trots away, staring after it fondly. “They seem happy, don’t they?”

“They are certainly happy to see you.” Hannibal himself is not overly fond of dogs, but he’s certainly not about to tell Will that.

Besides, he finds Will’s love of them endearing.

“I’m glad they still remember me. I thought they might get overly attached to Alana, but I guess not.” Will beams at Lecter, his teeth two bright rows of white in the dimly lit kitchen. It’s the widest smile Lecter has ever seen from Will, and suddenly Will bursts out with, “I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to properly thank you yet. You were… you were so nice to me when I was in the hospital. And the ride. And the book, and everything.”

One of Will’s dogs presses up against Hannibal’s leg and he absently pats it on the head. “It was nothing,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “You are my colleague and we need to help each other out whenever we can.”

And Will, beautiful Will with his wide blue eyes, mussed curls, ratty shirt and bare feet, just looks at Hannibal like he’s a foreign creature.

“It is the polite thing to do,” is all Hannibal replies.

The dog whines and goes over to Will, curling up at his feet.

 

 

-

 

 

Lecter insists on bringing Will dinner. Will protests, saying that he can cook himself something (a topic on with Lecter vehemently disagrees, noting that all of Will’s food has expired) or saying he can order pizza (which Lecter says is a waste of money and also, “you might as go find some rotten tomatoes and meat in your neighbors’ garbage bins”) and finally he breaks Will’s resolve and he says, “fine, do whatever you want.”

Promising, “I’ll be back in a few hours,” Lecter vanishes and leaves Will alone and suddenly exhausted.

He unpacks a few sets of clothes and takes a long, long, hot shower and he maybe starts to feel clean again. He towels his hair dry and sees a note Alana left on the kitchen counter, telling him to give her a call as soon as he gets the chance and feels up to it. Resolving to call her first thing in the morning, he sits down on the couch, curling his legs up underneath him.

An hour passes and Lecter isn’t back yet and Will’s eyelids droop and he lays his head on the armrest.

He’s not sure how long he’s slept when he hears very soft footsteps and a rustle of fabric that he realizes is someone covering him up with the green blanket from the back of the couch. “What’re you doing?” Will mutters, opening his eyes and trying to sit up, but he can feel Lecter’s hand on his curls, smoothing them down, soothing him.

“You need your rest, William. I understand that. Go back to sleep.” The hand strokes his hair and he lets his head fall down again, eyes closing. Blunt nails drag across his scalp and Will snuggles down under the blanket, feeling safe and secure. “Just sleep. Your dinner is on the counter.”

The same gentle hand slowly and carefully takes the glasses from Will’s face, folding them and putting them on the coffee table. Will thinks he hears Lecter saying, “Sleep well, my sweet Will,” as he walks away.

 

 

-

 

 

Will wakes early the next morning, still curled up on the couch, the blanket pulled up to his chin.

The first thing he sees when he ambles into the kitchen is the Tupperware container on the counter, a note tucked underneath it, _Dearest William_ written on it in an elegant hand. 

_My dear Will, I have left you some herb roasted pork and asparagus which I hope you will find to your liking, although it appears that we will have to take a rain check on our dinner date. Please, give me a call at my office at your earliest convenience so that we can reschedule._

_Always, H. Lecter._

 

 

 

**end.**


End file.
